


Doppelgänger

by NojuanEspecial



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Rated For Violence, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1334119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NojuanEspecial/pseuds/NojuanEspecial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the preface preface, lol. </p><p>I am writing this in response to this picture: (picture was removed, sorry)<br/>The story takes place after season three but before season four and the tags cover the entire story, not individual chapters.<br/>This is marked as Alternate Universe, but as much as possible I have tried to remain far within canon, bending or supplementing it only where required to make the plot work. You will (if my writing abilities cooperate and my skill is sufficient) recognize these characters and their world from the show.</p><p>That is all you need to know for now, the rest will be contained within, sooner or later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doppelgänger

"Sherlock. Come out, I know you’re there."  
  
            Sliding out from the darkness behind a tree, Sherlock thanked whatever merciful improbability had caused John to lag behind. He turned his head, straining to hear through the heavy rain, or see through the muddy dark to just barely make out a small, bobbing yellow light heading into the distance. Yes, by the looks of it, John had meandered off back towards the older portion of the cemetery. Good. He would be safe there, provided he didn’t somehow characteristically blindly grope his way straight into the middle of this. That would be just like John, but he had better not. Sherlock wanted to be alone for this. He had to be. He couldn’t risk the distraction of worrying about John. He cursed himself for having brought him along in the first place. Lightning flashed as he cleared the trees, and illuminated another figure ambling closer.

* * *

 

  
            One shadow broke from the cluster of them hugging the opposing treeline, and moved into the sparse moonlight of the clearing. The rain had taken it’s liberty with his appearance, frustratingly washing away potentially valuable insight, but there was still something to go off of. His clothing, simple, low quality, cheap. A plain blue cotton-polyester blend, two buttons undone. Trousers, unevenly fading grey polyester, worn at the hems and pockets drooping from use, two sizes too large and held up with some sort of flimsy material of pastel colors (a ladies’ silk scarf perhaps?) tied through the loops. Something weighing heavy in the right pocket, unlikely a phone, probably an empty wallet or some wad of paper. Plain off-brand black trainers, filthy with muck. His messy, shoulder-length, wavy hair framed a gaunt, almost emaciated face, with a few stray thick locks plastered to his forehead, onyx in the glint of the rain and moon.  
  
            As he turned to face Sherlock head-on, the shadows cut stark shapes as they fell into the planes and angles of his face. Because of this, Sherlock could see the peculiar and unfitting grin that seemed to slash across his face like a knife wound. Weaving among the stones, as if tiptoeing through a tea garden, heedless of grounds or grave, he wandered irreverently right through Holmes’ family plot, and between the graves of his great grandparents, the man came to a stop. He propped himself against one of them, and looked into Sherlock’s eyes, as the sky flashed brighter than a summer day for the briefest of moments, smiling. He had only seen such a disturbing Cheshire grin on one other person. Sherlock felt an unfamiliar and uncomfortable tightening of his throat, he felt his pulse quicken, his nerves came ablaze, electricity tingled through his very skin all so suddenly that he might have thought he’d been struck by the lightning- he was afraid.  
              
            “Well aren’t you going to give your brother a hug?” queried a voice that was at once unknown and still all too familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I definitely would appreciate some feedback, but I haven't written anything fanfic related since Inu Yasha was on Cartoon Network, so please go easy on me  
> You MAY re-post this elsewhere, without seeking permission, but not on other writing sites, ONLY UNEDITED, NOT for profit and with proper credit and/or a link back here.  
> Neither this, nor any work by this author, is to be duplicated, transcribed, read aloud, excerpted, or otherwise used in any manner involving visual media (includes but not limited to Youtube, television, flash, traditionally rendered artwork, digitally rendered artwork, computer graphics) without explicit permission from the author beforehand.  
> If you are aware of these allowances and restrictions being broken, please notify the author, a reward (of some kind, not necessarily financial) may be offered.  
> As a final note to any English readers (that is, readers who ARE English, not just readers who -speak- it), I am an American (I know. Sorry.), but I'm an Anglophile, and so I would prefer this story to sound right. Hence my use of "trousers" rather than "pants", etc. If I have made any glaring errors, please do send me a message, with one or more better replacement terms/phrases so that I may correct it. The last thing I want is Sherlock (etc) to sound like an American. Well, unless I wrote a scene where he was trying to pose as one for some reason or another. =P


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